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280 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1994
He thinks of Orpheus walking backwards step by step, whispering the dead woman's name, coaxing her out of the entrails of hell; of the wife in graveclothes with the blind, dead eyes following him, holding out limp hands before her like a sleepwalker. No flute, no lyre, just the word, the one word, over and over. When death cuts all other links, there remains still the name. Baptism: the union of a soul with a name, the name it will carry into eternity. Barely breathing, he forms the syllables again: Pavel.
Visions that come and go, swift, ephemeral. He is not in control of himself. Carefully he pushes paper and pen to the far end of the table and lays his head on his hands. If I am going to faint, he thinks, let me faint at my post鈥�
Why this plodding chase across empty country after the rumour of a ghost, the ghost of a rumour?
鈥濶oi nu vorbim, nu pl卯ngem, nu ne g卯ndim o mie de ani la pe de-o parte 葯i pe de alt膬 parte, noi chiar facem... 脦nc膬 o 卯ntrebare de葯teapt膬! 脦nc膬 o pierdere de vreme! Zilele de葯tept膬ciunii s卯nt num膬rate. De葯tept膬ciunea e ceva de care o s膬 ne descotorosim鈥� (pp.93-94).